5.

  I once more view the room with spectators surrounded,
    Where as Zanga I trod on Alonzo o’erthrown;
  While to swell my young pride such applauses resounded,
    I fancied that MOSSOP[5] himself was outshone.

6.

  Or as Lear I pour’d for the deep imprecation,
    By my daughters of kingdom and reason depriv’d: 
  Till fir’d by loud plaudits, and self adulation,
    I consider’d myself as a Garrick reviv’d.

7.

  Ye dreams of my boyhood how much I regret you,
    As your memory beams through this agoniz’d breast,
  Thus sad and deserted, I ne’er can forget you,
    Though this heart throbs to bursting by anguish possest.

8.

  I thought this poor brain fever’d even to madness,
    Of tears as of reason forever was drain’d,
  But the drops which now flow down this bosom of sadness,
    Convince me, the springs have some moisture retain’d.

9.

  Sweet scenes of my childhood! your blest recollection,
    Has wrung from these eye-lids to weeping long dead,
  In torrents, the tears of my warmest affection,
    The last and the fondest, I ever shall shed.

[Footnote 5:  MOSSOP, a cotempory of GARRICK, famous for his performance of Zanga, in YOUNG’s tragedy of the Revenge.]

* * * * *

THOUGHTS SUGGESTED BY A COLLEGE EXAMINATION.

High in the midst surrounded by his peers, M—­ns—­l his ample front sublime uprears; Plac’d on his chair of state, he seems a God, While Sophs and Freshmen, tremble at his nod.  Whilst all around sit wrapt in speechless gloom, His voice in thunder shakes the sounding dome; Denouncing dire reproach, to luckless fools, Unskill’d to plod in mathematic rules.

  Happy the youth! in Euclid’s axioms tried,
  Though little vers’d in any art beside;
  Who with scarce sense to pen an English letter,
  Yet with precision, scans an attic metre.

  What! though he knows not how his fathers bled,
  When civil discord pil’d the fields with dead,
  When Edward bade his conquering bands advance,
  Or Henry trampled on the crest of France;
  Though marvelling at the name of Magna Charta,
  Yet, well he recollects the laws of Sparta. 
  Can tell what edicts sage Lycurgus made,
  Whilst Blackstone’s on the shelf neglected laid;
  Of Grecian dramas vaunts the deathless fame,
  Of Avon’s bard, remembering scarce the name.

  Such is the youth, whose scientific pate,
  Class honours, medals, fellowships await;
  Or even perhaps the declamation prize,
  If to such glorious height, he lifts his eyes. 
  But lo! no common orator can hope
  The envied silver cup within his scope;